i am predicting my legacy

a few years
or perhaps a millisecond
cobalt skies impregnated with frost;

a small boy, crystallized lip, pale and
wearing his fingerless gloves with pride
tramping barefoot home
to the warm and dirty stove

and outside his door,
beyond reach of the step

streets away,
under a pile of snow
on a cracked, dirty bench
between the whispers of souls past–
a poem on a fluttering piece of ripped paper

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